


As History is Writ

by volta_arovet



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics, Final Fantasy XII, Ivalice Alliance
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:00:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volta_arovet/pseuds/volta_arovet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History goes as history has gone, but some stories tend to repeat themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As History is Writ

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lassarina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassarina/gifts).



> All discrepancies in the timeline and histories of these two momentous occasions are due entirely to Mr. Durai's shoddy bookwork, and are no fault of my own. Enjoy.

Three hours after Balthier stole back his ship, he discovered that he'd kidnapped a boy.

Vaan's quarters were a terrible mess, treasures and maps strewn about with equal lack of care as the blankets and random articles of clothing. Balthier had begun his traditional post-theft separation of artifacts--which valuables were to be kept to himself, which would be boxed and returned to Penelo with a gracious note (because there was thievery, and then there was base discourtesy), and which were to be unceremoniously dropped out the nearest port window (because there was base discourtesy, and there was the truly unpleasant trick Vaan had played the last time he stole the Strahl from Balthier).

And then a blanket moved, revealing a bare arm and a crop of Dalmascan-white hair.

Balthier cursed to himself low, creatively, and constantly. He toed the lad, who mumbled something and clutched the blanket tightly.

"Fran!" Balthier called, using the tone of voice which indicated that, while the Strahl was not under attack from within, it still would be appreciated if she could set the controls to automatic and get in here post-haste.

"Boy," Balthier said, and toed him again. "Boy, best be looking lively."

The child grumbled again as he woke, and his pale eyes blinked slowly at the light. "Vaan?" he asked, voice fuzzy with sleep.

"Not as such, no," Balthier said. "I'm afraid you're in the hands of a much more capable sky pirate, now." He grabbed the boy by the collar and hoisted him up. "Come, let's have a look at you."

"Don't--" the boy said, shying way from Balthier's hands and curling in on himself.

Balthier took a step back, and knelt at the boy's level. "Peace, boy. Despite what rumors may say, we're more honorable rogues than that. You won't be sold to slavers or tossed off the ship--not without a chute, at least."

He heard the telltale click of Fran's shoes against the metal floor, and Balthier straightened to a more respectable posture. "Tell us your favored port, and we'll drop you there--or the nearest access point, if it's not in our path."

"I don't," the boy said, keeping his pale eyes cast on the ground. "I don't want to go home. There are people there who…" The boy bit his lip, shaking his head.

"The ship lists," Fran said. "The engines have not been well cared for." She ran a hand through the boy's hair, and he leaned in to the feel of claws against his scalp. "We are in need of ballast."

Balthier laughed--but inwardly, so as not to insult his partner's kindness. "Or if that fails, perhaps conscription is in order. I always thought a proper pirate needs a faithful bosun. What say you?"

The boy blinked a few more times, then broke into a big grin, nodding enthusiastically.

Balthier stuck out his hand. "I'm Balthier. This is Fran." The boy shook his hand wildly. Balthier leaned in, whispering, "Your name, boy."

"Oh!" The boy said, his grin turning a little sheepish. "It's Ajora."

***

In another land, at another time.

Balthier followed the boy--rather, he boldly stepped to where he knew the boy would pass, as a leading man should give at least the appearance of writing his own script. And that this boy, this Ramza, was dissuading him from following rather than falling headlong into trouble or quietly asking for help, it made it entirely different, it. Well.

Balthier was certain that somewhere, Fran was laughing at him.

"What ho, ser Ramza!" a jolly man with a dashing ascot said. "Have you picked up yet another stray?"

"Picked up?" Ramza snorted. "Nay, Beowulf. This cur followed me home."

"Cur?" Balthier waved a dismissive hand. "I follow fortune, not table scraps."

"Then follow them where your traps need not entangle me again," Ramza said.

"You've a rare talent, piquing our leader's ire," Beowulf said. "He's not been one to turn down help before."

"To your benefit," a woman in a green cloak said sharply.

"Aye, that it was," Beowulf said, and threw an affection arm around the dragon--dragon?--resting by his side. "To yours and my and mine, I would say."

The cast was certainly colorful enough to suit Balthier's tastes. He settled himself at an empty place by the fire, nestled nicely between a dancer and a mage. "With such good recommendations, I would be a fool to turn down a generous invitation," he said, and winked at the mage.

Ramza steamed. "Ser pirate, you have _not_\--"

An explosion from a distant part of camp interrupted him, and he rushed off to examine the plume of smoke rising behind a tent. The others seemed little worried about it, so Balthier paid it small mind.

"Don't mind him," Beowulf said. "He's a bit shouty, but an excellent leader altogether."

"He does not treat betrayal lightly, ser pirate," the woman in green said. "Nor do we all." She gave him a pointed look.

"You question my motive?" Balthier asked, pressing a delicate hand to his wounded chest. "I could no more betray my own comrades than my hand could betray my foot." He winked again at the mage on his right.

"Then we shall anticipate your turn by your limp," the woman in green said drolly.

Balthier laughed. "Fairly said."

The mage next to him turned her head, lowering her hood, and Balthier noticed for the first time that she was dark, the only one he'd seen in this Dalmascan-pale land. Ramza did seem to gather an interesting assortment of followers. "Are you certain your choice is wise?" she asked. "We are branded heretics. If you join us, you will be branded, as well."

"To lie with the dogs means to rise with fleas, you may say?" Balthier said. He drew his gun and pointed it at the horizon. "Then you may benefit from one who may shoot a flea from a dog's back without rustling so much as a single tuft of fur." He winked at the mage, who colored nicely. "Though, to be fair, I'd doubt you've many charges that I myself have not already earned."

"The papers may be old, but I swear to you, the theory is sound!" a young man said, striding beside Ramza as the leader walked back to the fire. He was wearing sturdy coveralls and half a pound of soot. Balthier was discomforted on sight.

"I'm more concerned with the soundness of your skull, Mustadio, than that of the ideas inside," Ramza said, and for the first time, Balthier saw him smile fondly.

"Your concern is touching for its novelty," the engineer said, knocking Ramza lightly in his side, smudging soot on the man's sleeve. "I believe the ratio of gunpowder to magicite is correct--it's only the barrel of the gun which is unable to withstand the--oh sweet saints!"

Mustadio broke off and pounced on Balthier.

"That is the most beautiful thing I've ever see," Mustadio breathed, hands hovering over the gun almost reverently. "May I examine it?"

"It's accepted courtesy to buy one a drink first," Balthier said, but allowed Mustadio the use of the gun.

The lad stripped and probed the gun's secrets as quickly as--well, an ungentlemanly metaphor. "Bottom-firing to reduce recoil, I presume? The etching on the inner barrel, what effect on the moment of inertia….This alloy, how remarkable! I've never seen the like before!"

"Also note the filigree on the handle," Balthier said, casting Ramza a self-satisfied look. "Sadly, I must be off, as I've rarely been one to stay without an invite." He ignored the bald falseness of that statement as he retrieved his gun and made as if to leave.

"Ramza!" Mustadio protested. The pup's eyes he used were rather embarrassing, but Balthier would raise no complaint when they were used to his benefit.

"Oh, as you wish," Ramza said, waving his hands to be free of his friend's entreats.

"Brilliant!" Mustadio said, and seated himself beside Balthier, squeezing the dancer out of the way. He stuck out a hand, which Balthier shook with care for the soot that might fall upon his cuffs. "I'm certain we will work wonders. Mustadio Bunansa. And you?"

Balthier did not choke at the name, did not widen his eyes or raise his brows, and firmly tamped down on what that might mean about his prospects on returning home and the path of his future. He merely said, "Balthier," and left it at that.

***

The Dalmascan westersand was hot and dry this evening, not that it changed much for the season, and even the Strahl's engine room held the thin, dusty air of the desert.

"Spanner," Balthier said, holding out a hand. Ajora fumbled through the tool box with his left hand, the right being occupied with a cup of shaved ice and honey. He passed his choice to his captain.

"Is this the right size?" he asked, his feet swinging rhythmically, just barely brushing the floor with each pass.

"Good lad," Balthier said, and the boy beamed at the praise. "Are you certain you haven't been a sky pirate before? It would certainly explain your notoriety."

Ajora flushed, though it was hardly noticeable in the heat. "No, I. I'd never left my home village. Before."

"Then I suppose you've never stolen a lord's jewels?" Balthier asked.

"No," Ajora laughed.

"Uncovered secreted documents, then?" Balthier asked.

"No!"

"Seduced the magistrate's daughter?" he suggested, and laughed at Ajora's scandalized expression. "No, I suppose not, at only seven years of age."

"I'm eight," Ajora corrected.

"My apologies," Balthier said, tapping the spanner to his brow. "Then we are already far behind in your education. Once you are done with the basics of airship repair, we shall start with the fundamentals of pirating--thieving, dueling, clever repartee, that sort of thing."

"Stealing other people's airships?" Ajora suggested.

"The Strahl was mine first, but retaking what's been taken from you," he pointed at Ajora, "with proper interest, of course, is certainly part of the code."

Ajora ducked his head and grinned, scooping up a big bite of honey ice and letting it melt on his tongue.

"I always said, if you're to be targeted by angry men, it ought to be for something truly remarkable."

Ajora grew quiet at that.

"Balthier?" he said at last, his voice soft again.

"Yes, lad?"

"Do you know about the plague in Lesalia?" he asked. He stared at his cup, poking aimlessly at the melting ice.

"Lesalia keeps its secrets, but yes, I've heard." Balthier's voice matched Ajora's softness, like he was trying not to startle an injured animal.

"Oh." Ajora drifted off into silence again.

Balthier let the silence sit for a few moments. "Did you lose someone to the plague?"

Ajora jumped at that. "What? No! I--" He bit his lip and mashed at his ice some more. "The well in my town held the sickness, I knew it, and I told them--" His hands stilled. "The ones who listened, lived."

"And they thought you the cause of it, for how else would you know?" Balthier concluded, and Ajora nodded miserably.

Balthier moved from the engine, curled his fingers around Ajora's chin and lifted his face, so they were eye-to-eye.

"How else did you know?" he asked, simply.

"I hear voices, sometimes," Ajora said, voice low and hoarse.

"Well," Balthier said. "When they speak again, I should be very interested in what they have to say." With that, he chucked Ajora under his chin and turned back to the engine. "Now, I would like you to help me loose and clean the bearings in this cel. Can you do that?"

Ajora jumped off his perch and landed next to Balthier. He worked diligently with a little, serious frown on his face, and if his arm brushed up against Balthier's a little too often, Balthier found it diplomatic not to say anything.

***

The camp was quiet that night--not judging by volume, no, but in terms of peace and camaraderie and, yes, several casks of wine. Balthier wasn't familiar with any of the words to Folstaff's, the bard's, songs, but that matters little when one is cozied up to a sweet white mage and the spoils of the battle are weighing down one's pockets.

They reached the end of _The Dragoon's Wife's Lament_ with great cheer and terrible puns, and Balthier was in an especially good mood. Luso was especially cheerful, copying down the lyrics to the songs so he could refer to the particularly naughty jokes in the future.

"What next?" Folstaff asked, giving his harp a friendly plunk.

"A pirating song!" Mustadio cheered, clapping Balthier on the shoulder. "In honor of the best shot of the day," he squeezed a little harder, "to be surpassed, of course, tomorrow."

"A sky pirating song," Ramza corrected, to Balthier's souring expression.

Folstaff tapped a finger against his lips, lost in thought. "I don't think--"

Somewhere, something in the camp exploded. Mustadio and Ramza were on their feet in a flash. "I swear to you, it wasn't me!" Mustadio said as they dashed towards the smoke.

"Pirating song, pirating song," Folstaff thought. "I've few of sky pirates, though the ones of wild fonRathsbane are always popular."

"I'd rather you didn't," Balthier said blandly.

Folstaff thought again. "Then his companion, the Lady Penelope of the Branded Arms? How her dance charmed rogues and kings alike, and she stole the very crown at the same moment the last veil--"

"No, with the greatest courtesies," Balthier said, a bit ill. "Are there no other sky pirates in legend?"

"Hmm." Folstaff tapped his lips again. "Zecht the Red? Elza the Swift? They say sainted Balias was a pirate, or a thief, at least." This was met with a chorus of boos and hisses for bringing religious songs to a pointedly unholy group.

"What of _Crack the Stone_?" Beowulf suggested. "There is a pirate who flies in the third verse or so."

"I thought he 'steers,' not 'flies,'" Meliadoul said.

"I always sang that he 'guides' the ship," Rapha said.

"Well, then," Beowulf said, clapping his hands together. "For the sake of tonight, he 'flies.'"

Folstaff began playing, and it was a rather charming song, for all that the words were of death. Each verse built upon the previous, detailing how the death of each character made the story impossible. It seemed to Balthier that they had already killed the entirety of the royalty and military by the time they got to the sky pirate, who died, in turn, to cheerful melodies.

They reached the final verse as Ramza and Mustadio returned, and Luso demanded they repeat the fourth verse because he'd missed transcribing a word or two. "Why the sad face?" Mustadio asked, and Balthier was surprised to realize it showed.

"_The Pirate is dead_," he quoted tunelessly, "_Too ra loo, too ra lay._" As was his reputation, his legacy, all remnants of his passing save for the lad in front of him.

Mustadio clapped him on the shoulder. "If it helps having shared troubles, then you should know, now, so is Marach's lead frog."

Strangely enough, it did.

***

Ajora was talking to himself. Balthier quickly corrected himself--the boy was holding his part of a conversation, but the other part was something Balthier couldn't hear.

Balthier cleared his throat, and Ajora turned with a start.

"Bel--Balthier!" Ajora cried.

"Who are you speaking with?" he asked, the paused when he saw what the boy had in his lap. Stones--crystals, rather, that hid and revealed secret sigils as the boy fluttered his knees. Mateus, the ice esper--that had been Penelo's, and Hashmal, that was Vaan's, and next to them, Famfrit. His father's. His own.

"I'm sorry," Ajora said. The stones clinked with every bob of his knees.

"A true sky pirate does not secretly steal from his companions," Balthier said quietly.

"I'm sorry," Ajora said again.

"Next time you wish for some of my effects, be certain to steal it openly and with a great deal of mocking laughter."

Ajora blinked at him in surprise. Balthier wondered if that expression would ever lose its humor.

Balthier settled himself beside the boy, convincing himself that the creaking noise was his leathers not his knees. "Are the stones what speak to you?" he asked.

"No. Well, yes, but they're not who I'm listening to," Ajora said slowly, brow furrowed with the effort of telling confusing truths.

"Who are you listening to?" Balthier asked.

Ajora's frown increased. "She says she's the last--or, the highest? And maybe she's a part of me, or I'm a part of her?" He shook his head. "It's hard to hear her, but the stones make it easier."

"There are others in the world." Balthier stood, stretching his legs. "What say we go find them?"

Ajora brightened. "Thank you, Balia--Balthier."

"Balias, Belthier," Balthier snorted, and drew Belias' stone from his pouch. He tossed it carelessly into Ajora's lap, where it clinked against the others. "A queen entrusted me to keep that safe, but you may have it for now if it will help you keep my name straight."

"Thank you," Ajora said, tracing a finger over the crystal's edge. "And sorry. He's--rather loud."

"What does he speak of?" Balthier asked.

"Revolution," Ajora said sweetly.

It was Balthier's turn to blink at that. "Well. Best it was kept from the hands of queens, then," he said, and left Ajora talking quietly to the air.

"We are on a quest, then?" Fran asked, later that night.

Balthier dissembled, waving a hand in the air. "More an enlightened curiosity than anything else."

"You have fallen into a habit," Fran said.

"A habit?"

"Taking young boys into your care, and being drawn into intrigues for the run of it," Fran said with a smile.

Balthier grumbled and straightened his already immaculate cuffs. "I preferred it when you called it a 'quest.' You make me sound like a father."

***

"You seem troubled." That was Rapha, the dear girl, perhaps the only other awake at this time of night, beyond the guards and the owls.

"I've merely been doing a bit of light reading," Balthier said, and flipped another page in the Germonique Scriptures. Rapha's breath caught in her throat when she recognized the book. "Don't be so shocked; if Ramza truly wished it to remain a secret, he would have placed it under lock and key." He paused in thought. "_Better_ lock and key, at any rate. I'll return it once I've read my fill."

"Be cautious," Rapha said. "Your faith may not stand it."

"I've put little stock in faith," Balthier said blithely. "And it seems you know of this document, yet remain strong."

"It was a relief, in a way," Rapha said, too quickly to be casual. "The man who taught me of Saint Ajora and his miracles, he did. Terrible things. It is easier to dismiss it all as corrupt and false than to try to separate the gold from the bile."

"Yes, well." Balthier's finger traced the secrets on the page. "To have one's prophet grow to be a liar, a spy, and a revolutionary would soundly thrash anyone's faith."

"And that Germonique, the traitor, would tell the tale…" Rapha shook her head. "All parts of the tale have turned on their heads. The only thing it lacks is for sainted Balias to have survived, as well."

That caught at Balthier's ear. "Balias did not return?" he asked. Rapha seemed confused.

"Not in the stories," Rapha said. "He died, or rather, was sacrificed, beneath Balias Tor. If he were resurrected, Ajora did not claim it as his miracle."

"Of course not," Balthier said bitterly. "That would have stretched the credulity of the tale."

"We believe an infant spoke of cursed wells the day after he was born," Rapha said quietly. "We were taught not to question these stories, right from the start."

"An infant, speaking. How utterly ridiculous," Balthier agreed. "He was eight at the time."

"Your pardon?" Rapha asked.

"Nothing, nothing," Balthier said, turning another page. "I speak of nothing."

***

It was foolish, it was--he was far too old for this, the breaking into ancient tombs and fighting strange beasties, following the paths of oracles or spirits and whatnot. At the very least, he deserved a better audience than a boy.

But when the battle was done and the stone subdued, the boy reached for the stone, and drew back before touching it. "Can we leave it?" he asked in a small voice. "Please? Can we, can we leave the stones alone now? Please?"

Balthier stared at him patiently, silently, until the boy was compelled to speak again.

"She gets louder each time, and I--" Ajora backed further from the stone. "I don't want to hear what she says anymore."

Balthier touched Ajora's hair gently. It was smooth under his fingers, and seemed almost white in the pale light of the underground tomb. "If that is what you wish. Come, now. Fran's waiting."

The boy relaxed at that, and gave Balthier a weak smile before making for the exit.

Balthier cast another look at the stone. "An awful waste to leave such a prize," he said, before tucking it into his shirt. Ajora might change his mind in the future, after all.

And then he fell. It was foolish, after all this time, to submit to clumsiness. His back twisted, his boot caught at the edge of the platform, and he was falling against the great machine. The stone beneath his shirt glowed, and Balthier had no breath, no sound, and all he saw was light and Ajora reaching for him. He had a moment to wish for the boy to make up a better story about his final days, a death involving battle and glory and perhaps scantily-clad women, and then the light took him, and he was gone.

It was weeks before Balthier wondered if Ajora's hands had meant to grab him, or push him.

***

The workshop was an utter mess. Balthier considered remarking on it, speculating whether it had been ransacked by thieves, or if the madman Cloud had waged destruction on his path from the machine to the door--but, no, Mustadio and his father treated the mess as usual, so Balthier wrote it off as part of their research process.

Besrudio, the lad's father, motioned to a pile of papers with four wooden legs beneath. "Please, please, have a seat."

"Much obliged," Balthier said, drawing the papers onto his lap.

"This is the device," Mustadio said, patting a spiraling contraption of brass and gold set on the near side of the room. "We think it has to do with the vibrational frequency of the machine--the stone powers the motion of the spinners, and when its movement matches the fundamental frequency of a universe, or a person in a particular other universe, they resonate, causing the energy to increase until" he clapped his hands together sharply, "they pop into this world!"

"Very interesting," Balthier said diplomatically. He knew he ought to have been more attentive, but he was distracted by the papers on his lap, a collection of rough sketches and pictures of flying ships, or parts of them, all marked with notes in Mustadio's spiky, backwards handwriting. The cross-section of a nacelle, the too-familiar curve of a wing, the designs were too near to Balthier's heart for fairness.

"We just need to match the machine to your frequency, and you should pop back to your world, like a stretched spring bouncing back into place!" Mustadio was already fiddling with the machinery, turning the knobs and investigating which way things would spin.

"Where did you say you were from, ser?" Besrudio asked. Balthier startled, looking up from the papers.

"Ivalice, of course. An epoch or so ago, by my measure," Balthier said smoothly.

"Is that so," Besrodio said. He turned to his son. "Ah, forgive an old man, I have forgotten my reading glasses. I believe I left them on a pile in the anteroom, somewhere."

"As you wish, my aging, ailing father," Mustadio said smartly, and darted out of the room before his father's hand could find the back of his head.

"We may be at a loss," Besrudio said bluntly. "Alternate dimensions, yes, traveling forward in time, to be sure, but backwards travel…" He clucked his tongue in irritation.

"I understand the theoretical limitations," Balthier said, and he truly, truly did. This world, this time, was decades away from rediscovering theory he had learned in his first year of akademie.

Besrudio reached over, patted Balthier's hands as a father would a troubled son's. "We will try."

Balthier's voice caught in his throat; he had to clear it twice to speak. "My thanks." Besrudio made to move, but Balthier held onto his hand. "Where did you get your family name?"

"From my father, of course," Besrudio replied, without note of the question's strangeness. "And he from his, and so on. They say it was an honorary title at some point, for services rendered, or in reward for some great deed or invention." He dismissed the thought with a small shake of his head. "But then again, all old families say the same of their name."

Mustadio dashed back into the room, tripping an intricate path around the piles of papers and excavated projects. "Here you are, Father," he said, dropping the spectacles onto his father's nose. "I'd like you to take a look at these, give me your opinion." Mustadio forced a handful of parchment into Balthier's hands, similar to the ones he had picked up before, but with thrice the scribbled notes. Mustadio sighed. "Ah, if only I could leave with you. Airships! To only see them fly once would be…" He sighed again.

"Feet on the ground," Besrudio said, cuffing Mustadio's head.

"Yes, of course, my dear sweet Father," Mustadio said, obedient to the point of cheekiness. His father cuffed him again, and they laughed together.

Balthier found his heart lightening a bit at that. Despite the years, his mistakes, his lost notoriety and ways, at the very least, they had, at last, gotten this right.


End file.
